


Kadan

by katsudonice



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Death, Gay, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Qunari, Slash, it starts off slow and then gets better i promise, mouths sewn shut, one character is obsessed with the word fuck, qunlat everywhere, toungeless qunari
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2761370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsudonice/pseuds/katsudonice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Worst Mage Ever Male Trevelyan/Male OC Qunari Dork. A twist on the Inquisitors story beginning with the OC Qunari's story. This is written for my own pleasure and to slake my demonic Qunari lust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            Ten years ago when he had finally been given his life’s work, Arvaarad had vowed to himself and to the Qun that he would be the perfect example of a Qunari. He would have back evil. He would protect. He could not fail…And now ten years later as he sat in his tent, stroking the white hair of his beloved, he knew he had failed himself.

            To be arvaarad was to hold the leash of the saarebas- the mage. It was not so uncommon for arvaarad to choose favorites among his karataam. Sometimes this favoritism was little more than deep care and sometimes it was deeply sexual. The Qunari respected he saarebas as much as they feared them. To constantly battle oneself in an effort to please the Qun was to be respected. The arvaarad understood more than any other that the saarebas were people too; people with hopes and fears and love in their hearts. Duty, however, was duty and that care could not be allowed to fester into something that would put those duties at risk.

            Arvaraad had failed himself. He had failed the Qun. He knew his best course of action was to turn himself in to the Ben-Hassrath to be re-educated. He loved the Qun. The Qun gave him purpose and life, but he loved Saarebas. 

            He felt suddenly a pair of red eyes on him and looked down with some curiosity. Saarebas, when the heavy mask and shackles were removed, was a lovely specimen although Arvaraad had not once met an unattractive Qunari before. He suspected the Tamassrans had something to do with that. Fine cheekbones and a small, aquiline nose paired with overly long lashes gave him an almost feminine appearance. Carefully braided hair and what Arvaarad were sure were plucked brows completed the image. When asked about his appearance Saarebas would only smile and shrug. Few ever saw the saarebas without their masks, but Arvaraad had seen all of the mages primp and preen at some point. Even the eldest of his karataam, a female with a permanently nasty look on her face and even worse attitude, was known to get annoyed when she couldn’t bathe with regularity.

            Shaking himself from the brief aside he smiled some. “Yes?” He knew there would be no answer. His beloved had long ago been rendered mute. His tongue had been cut out by his previous arvaraad. That sad fact had been what had brought the two men together. All of Arvaraad’s karataam were missing their tongues. Considered a dangerous group, it was best if they were all leashed together…A logic Arvaraad still did not quite understand.

            Saarebas returned the smile and shifted to bump Arvaraad’s stomach with his forehead. The mage had had his horns sawed off as a child when his magic first showed. To outsiders it may have made him look a bit silly compared to his horned bretheren, but to the Qunari it was a warning. Mages were dangerous and were to be avoided. When he got no response Saarebas bumped Arvaraad again. When that didn't work he sat up, putting on a silly face as if he was offended. Despite the fact that he would live life as a prisoner in his own body for the rest of his life, Saarebas tried to keep a happy face. Arvaarad sometimes wondered if it was real joy or perhaps madness. Maybe both. 

            Arvaraad couldn't help but truly smile now at the antics of the mage. He reached forward and pulled the slighter man to his chest and kissed him firmly. "I adore you." He whispered, barely pulling their lips away. His hand moved up along Saarebas' back and gently pulled his braid apart. "And I wear on my life that I will free you and we will be together." This sentiment earned a much sadder smile from the mage. "One day..." He hoped.  


	2. Chapter 2

It was weeks, maybe months, before Arvaarad’s plan fell into place. While not a stupid man, arvaarad were never stupid, he had never bothered to keep track of time. There was no point. His job was not to keep time. 

The arvaraad were not simply keeper of the saarebas. They were hunters meant to find those who had strayed from the Qun and return them for re-education. Sometimes this went better than other times and if the scent of burned flesh in the air was any indication, the mission had not gone so well. Arvaarad made a mildly disgusted face at the stench that still, even after finding a river to bathe in, clung to himself and his karataam. With a grunt he waved the golden control rod around, not that this had anything to do with function but more a personal preference. “Set camp.” He commanded a fairly small group of mages, five in all, but command he did. A saarebas under the control of their collar would not so much as drop dead without the command to do so. 

He had been lucky, not so much in what the mission was, but his commands for the mission. He and his karataam had been tasked with hunting down a supposedly nearby and dangerous Tal-Vashoth that had formerly been a sten. The man had neither been nearby nor dangerous. Instead the man had nearly shat himself at the sight of the five bound saarebas. He had fought, however, and he had died a screaming mass of fire thanks to one of the saarebas. Arvaarad was unsure of which one had done it and he would not bother to ask. A prisoner would only complicate his plans.

Arvaarad holstered the control rod into his belt and set about helping the mages put together their bedrolls and build a fire pit. Despite the supposed danger with his group, he had never had much of an issue with them. His group consisted of his beloved, a sour faced female Qunari, a sort of runty and weak minded Qunari male whose mouth had been sewn shut, and a massive male who Arvaraad had been informed had murdered another saarebas in his former karataam. His strength and magical power, however, were far too valuable to have him killed. Finally Arvaarad commanded a middle aged female qunari that despite several attempts at re-education had never fully embraced the Qun. As such her mouth had also been sewn shut. Twice. All had their tongues sliced at one point or the other by their previous arvaarads. All wore heavy masks and pauldrons and when traveling were chained together as an extra precaution. 

Later in the evening as he waited for a pot of boiled oats and salted beef to properly cook, Arvaarad peered at his charges who all stared back in hunger. They sat, not as commanded but as expected, near the fire to wait for their dinner. It had been, not odd, but perhaps terrifying, when he had learned that he would be an arvaarad. To control such dangerous beasts and hunt down Tal-Vashoth was both s scary prospect and a massive point of pride that the Tamassrans believed he was mentally strong enough and close enough to the Qun to be trusted with such a task. 

Arvaraad beckoned the mages forth one by one to accept their dinner. He was not a man of many words and he had never been a man who enjoyed idle chatter. That fact that his mages could not speak certainly did not give him any sense of sadness. What did give him some emotion, pity, was watching the two mages whose mouths had be sewn shut. The process was painful and he was fairly certain magic was used. The pain never truly faded and the creatures could only eat through thick straws and chewing was not an option. The feeble minded saarebas required some extra assistance. An accidental breeding, given his true name and while unfortunate, the Qun found uses for all. 

As he ate his own bowl of oat mush, he thought. He had planned to escape with his Saarebas the first chance he got, but he knew the rest of his charges risked death. Some would choose to die by their own hands rather than live free of the Qun. Others would surely be captured and put to death on the off chance that they had been corrupted. Was it worth it, to risk the lives of four for the save of two? 

He found himself torn from his though by a familiar bump on his shoulder. Saarebas took a seat next to Arvaarad and waggled his now empty bowl at him. The meal was substantial, nutritious, and horribly bland as most road food was. Arvaarad chuckled and took the empty bowl, setting it aside. “Is my cooking not sufficient?” This earned him a sour look from the other male and a low snort. 

Arvaarad leaned down some to press his forehead to Saarebas’ head. “Tonight.” He said quietly, not caring so much if the others heard, but it was best if they were unaware for as long as possible. “We’re two days out from the main camp. If we leave tonight they won’t be able to catch up to us.” He saw fear in the eyes of his beloved, but hope there too. To be free of the Qun was the most terrifyingly exciting dream that any Qunari had ever dreamed. To have true free will under the Qun was unheard of. 

Briefly Arvaarad turned his eyes toward the others who were either still eating or settling into their bedrolls. “Tonight.” He repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ca find most of the Qunari words if you google Qunlat. I make a lot of assumption about their culture based on what I think would make sense.


	3. Chapter 3

            A low whimper rang out as Arvaarad lifted his control rod. The whimper turned into a low scream as he snapped the rod over his knee. At once the heavy collars each saarebas wore dropped from their necks and into their laps. It did not hurt beyond a sudden relief of pressure that most of them had lived with since puberty, but the terror of suddenly being unprotected was distinctly powerful.

 

            Arvaraad said nothing for several long seconds. The gravity of what he had just done suddenly crashed down like a landslide. _Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun._ Every Qunari could recite the _Soul Canto_ by heart. Victory is the Qun…But when he looked over at his beloved who smiled so brightly and gingerly touched his uncollared neck; he knew that the Qun was not perfect. Romantic love, an emotion outlawed by the Qun, was not some evil force that caused misery. Love was no struggle.

 

           

            He turned his gaze to the other mages, who looked more terrified than overjoyed. “Stay here. A search party will come. If you stay together there is no chance that you will be corrupted. “He knew the mages feared possession. All their lives they had been taught that only an arvaarad could protect them and hold the demons at bay. “Please stay here, my friends.” The sour faced female Qunari gave a low, fearful moan at the very idea of being left alone. Even the most rebellious female among them looked scared. She had tried to escape more times than days in the year and even so her eyes were wide and fearful.

 

            Arvaarad turned away from them now. He knew that they would be killed. It would be assumed that his beloved had turned to blood magic, corrupted him, and run off. _Asit tal-eb_. It is to be. He wasn’t sure if the feeling in his chest was guilt or excitement.

 

            As a child his tamassran always told him he was a gentle soul. The other children called him weak. Flowers made him smile as much as the thought of combat training. His childhood hobbies included whittling small animals from sticks and getting into fistfights. Tears came to him as easy as laughter and shame was not a feeling he knew.  His tama told him he was special. He was good boy and model Qunari. She told him that Qunari children would look up to him and that she was proud of him.

 

            When he shouldered his pack and took the hands of Saarebas, Arvaraad wasn’t so sure his tama would be proud of him anymore.

 

+~+~+

            The pair walked all night and into the day until they were both too exhausted to move on.  If he were to admit it, and he would not, Arvaarad suspected they were somewhere near the border of Nevarra and Orlais. His company had been stationed a ways out from Kirkwall still hunting Tal-Vashoth from the Qunari who had landed in Kirkwall nearly three years before.

           

            The man would also not admit to not having thought past this point. He carefully arranged a few blankets on the ground for himself and his lover, taking care to make sure they were well hidden behind some foliage (an admittedly difficult task for two grey giants). The panic was slowly starting to set in. Ataash varin kata. In the end lies glory…But what was their end? Joining a group of Tal-Vashoth was out of the question. Arvaarad had seen too many atrocities perpetrated by Tal-Vashoth. A Qunari without purpose was little more than a beast. Mercenary work may have been an option but he could not imagine anyone foolish enough to take on one Qunari let alone a Qunari and his tongueless saarebas lover.

 

            He passed a skin of water to Saarebas, who drank greedily. Arvaarad did not stop him disregarding the fact that it was their last skin of water. They had been walking the near the coast of the Waking Sea and had not yet come upon fresh water. Despite this he would not deny his beloved anything. His duty was arvaarad. One who hold back evil…And if evil was the world then he would fight to hid dying breath to protect his saarebas. Arvaarad snorted to himself at this thought, taking a small sip of whatever once Saarebas had quenched his thirst. He had failed in his duty once. He would not fail again.

 

            With a tired groan he flopped onto his back on the blankets. “We’ll keep going come nightfall. I doubt they’ll find us or even be looking at this point..But traveling by night is our safest bet.” He felt it again, that uncomfortable twisting and turning in his gut. Was it guilt? Fear? Hope?  He looked down to Saarebas who had snuggled into his chest with a hopeful smile. Fear. The feeling was fear but not for himself. He knew that if this failed, if they were captured, his sweet smiled lover would be killed. He knew that he would be dragged to the nearest Ben-Hassreth agent and re-educated or even dosed with qamek.

 

            “I love you.” He would not voice his concerns. He would not worry Saarebas. No. He would be strong enough to carry them both. He would hold back the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be much dialogue until probably chapter 5. Arv doesn't talk much and Saarebas is unable to speak so...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey look a new character!

The coastline of the Waking Sea was not the most hospitable place in all of Thedas, although it could be easily argued that it was not the worst place either. At least the coast afforded a nice view of the sea and the hills were rather nice too.

Today, however, the coast was a terrible place to be. A storm had rolled through overnight and had been pounding the coast since then. When it wasn’t pouring rain, it was drizzling. In the moment Maxwell Trevelyan stepped out of his tent into the steady drizzle he decided that any arguments against the coast being the worst place ever would not be strong enough. 

“Ser?”

The mage rolled grey-blue eyes. He had unfortunately been given an escort from the now defunct Circle at Ostwick as he made his way home. Said escort consisted of five overly attentive guards who wouldn’t let him take a piss without escort…Speaking of. He eyed the guard who had the unfortunate task of keeping watch on their soggy camp. He was young, although Maxwell didn’t find himself caring, and just over the light of good looking from average. 

“I need to piss, Cooper.” Maxwell told him blandly. “Or do I need permission?”  
Cooper fumbled briefly. So maybe he was younger than Maxwell thought. “No ser. Of course not, ser. Just, uh…Don’t wander too far, ser.”

Maybe if he rolled his eyes hard enough they would roll away. Maxwell snorted to himself at the thought. He waved a ringed hand at the man before doing just that: wandering too far. He had been cooped up in his tent, which was thankfully free of guards, all day. With no entertainment beyond a few books he’d been able to snatch from the Circle before its fall, he had no entertainment. 

He walked along the coast, just out of reach of the surf, until he was just out of the view of the camp. He really did need to make water, but mostly he needed to get away. The idea of returning home after so many years in the Circle was both exciting and terrifying. It had been what? Almost twenty years. He sighed grumpily at this thought. 

“I’m so fucking old.” Maxwell grumbled to himself. He started to fiddle with his robes so he could do his business when he noticed a large, dark shape moving farther down the coastline. 

Maxwell realized as he headed toward the shape that it was probably not the best idea to approach a big dark thing in the middle of a storm on a coast he knew little about. Being locked away in a Circle sometimes did crazy things to your head…Or maybe the old adage about curiosity killing the nug was true. 

 

+~+~+  
Maxwell’s curiosity turned from simple interest to mild panic as he realized the shape was not that of some misshaped bear or ram, but of a very large man…Sort of?

The creature was massive in both height and width, at least compared to that of a human. Grey skin was smeared with grime and what must have been blood. Dark, heavy horns jutted from its forehead first out and then straight up, adding at least six inches to the beasts height. The creature’s long white hair was caked in mud and blood and Maker knows what else. It wore only tattered black pants and no shirt. Its feet were bootless and grimy with gashes from the sharp rock surrounding them.

It was not the grime and much that caused Maxwell to utter a quiet “fuck.” No it was the creature’s face. Someone had been so cruel as to sew its mouth shut just loosely enough that it could drink from the sea with massive hands shoveling salty water into its face.

Once he was within a dozen or so paces from the creature it turned, yellow eyes boring into the mage. It looked tired and scared and pleaded for help without making so much as a sound. Maxwell took a step back, almost running back to camp. A Qunari, he realized. He had heard the stories of what Qunari did to their mages and he felt irrational fear. This Qunari was barely able to stand it seemed and he was injured.

Maxwell raised his hands as if to show he was unarmed and slowly approached. “Don’t worry.” He spoke as if the giant beast before him was a wounded little deer. “I’m going to help you. Just let me help you.”

+~+~+

Maxwell had never seen anything like this in all of his time studying magic. The Qunari before him only gave a low moan as the human ran his fingers over the crude stitches binding his mouth. The Qunari only gave a low moan of pain, yellow eyes scrunching shut. The stitches seemed to be made of some simple thread, but he could feel the dull hum of magic under his fingertips. It was no wonder the man before him didn’t simply cut them away.

He would never consider himself a gentle or particularly compassionate man. He had little in the way of healing training, but what he knew would have to do. “I don’t know if this will hurt.” It was a lie but he felt the need to comfort the broken creature before him. The stitches were hasty, red, and swollen with infection and irritation from the saltwater. “But I’m going to help you.”

Fingertips carefully traced over the stitches once, twice, and on the third pass he focused a small amount of magic into his fingertips. The threads cut away easily and as the last one fell the Qunari gave a pain scream not unlike that of a dying animal. Maxwell jumped back, worried he might be attacked, but the beast only gave a low sob, vomiting saltwater and bile before slumping forward. 

“Fuck.” Maxwell swore before quickly standing. “Cooper! Cooper get the fuck over here!” He wasn’t even sure the guard could hear him as he ran back toward camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking liberties with the whole human mage origin...As well as literally everything else. Also Maxwell's favorite word is fuck. It makes him feel like a rebel.


	5. Chapter 5

“I don’t make good choices, Cooper.” Maxwell said in a fairly calm voice as he watched his guards tie the giant’s hands together. “Remember me when you’re my age. Remember not to make stupid choices.” Cooper, Maker bless him, ignored the mage’s ramblings. “I don’t know if the rope will hold, ser, but we’ll be right outside. Let us know if it wakes.” 

Maxwell had persuaded (commanded, whatever) his guards to bring the beast into his tent. When he realized that the creature would take up half of the space within he was less than pleased. He was even more put out when he realized the grime covering the beast was getting everywhere. “Yes, yes.” He complained. “Get out now. I have…Magey things to do.” He waggled his fingers at the guards who slowly shuffled out into the rain. 

He actually had no “magey” thing to do to the beast beyond a basic healing spell. “You know,” He complained to the unconscious figure, “I could have left you out there. Yeah. I could have kept my clothes dry and my tent clean.” 

He did not do well with silence. Ostwick had been distinctly lax in its rules and he had often been allowed out into the small town surrounding the compound. The people were generally friendly as long as Templars were around to watch over the mages. The compound itself had always been bustling with mages working and reading and experimenting. 

Maxwell had had none of that scholarly business. He spent his days flirting with Templars and drinking too much at the town tavern. Scholarship was for the young and boring. Scholarship was for mages who were content to just be a mage. Scholarship was…”Oh for fuck’s sake.” Scholarship was probably what he should have focused on if he wanted to get this spell right.

The creature lying before had not stirred in the fifteen or so minutes since it had passed out, but Maxwell was still somewhat frightened at the idea of touching it. He had read, yes reading was for dorky mages but when not drinking one needed a hobby, about the horrors of the savage Qunari. This Qunari was no mage that much was for sure, so he could not imagine why its mouth was sewn shut. This was the exact thing he read about and here he was with his hands on the creature’s feet as he tried to cast a healing spell to stop the bleeding. 

“If you kill me I swear I will haunt your dreams.” Maxwell said seriously, trying to distract himself from his own failings. His talent had always been in elemental based magic, not stupid healing. The man sighed heavily, closing his eyes. He would help. He had told the beast he would help and so he would. 

It took some time and focusing and shutting up, but eventually he figured out the spell. His hands glowed an annoying light blue and he watched with some fascination as the torn and battered flesh on the beast’s massive feet slowly healed. He would admit he had not done a very good job, there would be scarring, but at least he was no longer bleeding. He would not attempt to heal the creature’s mouth just yet as he suspected he would have better luck with a potion or twelve. The face was a delicate area and it would be just his luck to cock it up. The very last thing Maxwell wanted was a pissed off ox attacking him for fucking up its face.

+~+~+  
Maxwell had seen plenty of paintings and woodcuts of Qunari before in books, but he had never seen one in the flesh. He assumed this one was male, although he wasn’t so cure Qunari even understood genders. According to his books the giants were little more than savages that lived on some awfully hot island and were Fade-bent on taking over the world. Not so much unlike the Chantry he supposed.

The Qunari he had read about were described as “white-haired, bronze-skinned giants.” This Qunari only had the white hair going for it…Him. Maxwell still wasn’t so sure about Qunari gender, but he was he enough for now. “Someone was an angsty teenager.” He snorted to himself as he looked over the beast. His horns were situated over each eye and curved straight up. One was decorated with a thin gold band. His ears, pointy and lower than an elf’s, were decorated with some five gold piercings each. Even his nipples each had a single gold bar through them. Maxwell found this all hilarious. His own idea of being rebellious involved swearing a lot and refusing to do his magic lessons. Piercings weren’t exactly an option.

He felt bolder now that he was sure the creature was out cold. Slowly he reached out and grabbed a massive bound grey hand. Maxwell was not a small man, but he was also not so massive as this giant. While Maxwell stood some six and a half feet tall, the Qunari laying before him was at least a head and a half taller, not including those horns of his. While Maxwell was broad and maybe a little flabby from laziness, the Qunari was broader and made of rock-hard muscle. Even under the grime and blood Maxwell could see that this ox could snap his neck with the flick of his wrist. 

“You’re very lucky I decided to save you.” Maxwell calmly informed the Qunari. “And I’ll have you know I am an excellent savior.” He did, at first, notice the beast’s hands slowly starting to twitch. “Fuck!” He jumped back some, hands flying off of the creature as soon as he let out a low groan of pain. 

+~+~+  
The giant slowly rolled onto his side with another low moan of pain. Yellow eyes slowly opened before closing again. His mouth slowly ooze blood and infection from the rips and punctures caused by the threads that had once bound his mouth shut. 

Maxwell hesitated, unsure of whether he should call the guards. Ugh. He could just see their faces. Whining about how heavy the ox was or how Maxwell was being foolish or whatever other shit they whined about. “Hey…Hey…” He began awkwardly. “Here. Can you sit up? You need to drink this.” He fumbled around behind his back, eyes never leaving the now conscious Qunari lying before him, and grabbed a bottle of bright red potion. He had never quite figured out how elfroot and other green plants made a red potion, but such thoughts were best left to dorky mages.

The Qunari groaned again, hands flexing against their bindings briefly. He opened his eyes, eyeing the mage but snow speaking. 

“Can you even understand me?” The mage asked after a moment. He floundered some, waving the potion at the creature. “Drink. Potion. Drinky drinky. Fixy fixy!” The creature seemed to understand this and slowly sat up. With a low whine of pain he opened his mouth, looking defeated or maybe nauseous. 

The human was pleased with himself and carefully poured the potion into the giant’s mouth. He almost snorted when he realized even the beast’s tongue was pierced, but he thought it best not to laugh at the giant to his face. “You know I was just telling you how great of a savior I am. Look at me, even helping you drink.” He spoke over the weak sob of pain the creature emitted as the potion burned his lips. 

Once the potion had been consumed, and Maxwell couldn’t even imagine the pain or the awful taste, he set the flask aside. “Hey do you understand me?” There was no answer from the ox. He had lifted his knees up enough to rest his elbows on them, head in his bound hands as his body shook. Perhaps he was crying, Maxwell wasn’t so sure. “I’ve read about your kind. I think uh…Sanedan? That means hello, right?” He was babbling now, unsure of what to do with this massive pained man in front of him. 

After some moments Maxwell found himself being stared at by glassy yellow eyes. The color wasn’t so attractive, he decided, like spicy Orleasian mustard. “Shanedan.” The Qunari said finally. “Your pronunciation is atrocious.”


	6. Chapter 6

Maxwell was finally quiet as he watched the Qunari slowly drink water and a bit of broth that would eventually be dinner. He had half expected the man to gulp everything down, but he exhibited self-control like Maxwell had never seen. The man hadn’t even complained about the bindings on his hands yet.

“So uh… Do you have a name?” The mage asked awkwardly. The Qunari had said nothing in a while. “Well I mean, I read once that Qunari don’t have names, yeah? But what can I call you? You’re Qunari right?” He babbled as he stared at the man. Despite the filth covering him he could see the potion had started to take effect. His mouth would be scarred, no doubt, but he was no longer bleeding and seemingly no longer in pain. 

Maxwell opened his mouth to speak again when he got no reply, but the Qunari beat him to it. “I am no longer Qunari.” His voice was a low rumble like thunder on a hot summer night. He spoke like a man who thought too much…or maybe his throat just hurt. Maxwell wasn’t sure. “For now you may call me Arvaarad.” The giant shifted some, carefully placing the now empty broth bowl onto the ground next to him. “I would like to thank you,” Maxwell suddenly found it very hard not to lean in when the great beast spoke to him, “For helping me. If you would just give me an hour’s rest I will be on my way.” He paused again. “And I would like my hands untied.”

“Arvaraad.” Maxwell repeated. This earned a bit of a grimace from the other man. “I take it my pronunciation is still shit.” He grinned when the Qunari nodded briefly. He leaned forward and cut the ropes with a quick pulse of magic to his fingers. He did not notice yellow eyes widen briefly. “Sorry about that. I uh…well me and my men have never seen someone like you before. I have to say I’m pleasantly pleased that you haven’t gone on a rampage and murdered us all.” He grinned crookedly, showing off several teeth chipped while trying to drunkenly show off his staff wielding skills to a cute bar boy. 

Arvaraad snorted a bit. “Yes. How kind of me.” He briefly rubbed his wrists before one hand went to a horn, simply holding it in a manner that seemed to be self-soothing. 

“You didn’t seem to have a place to go.” The mage said after a moment. He wanted to ask the man how the fuck he had managed to get his mouth sewn shut and why he was drinking seawater, but even Maxwell knew better than to ask so recently after a trauma. “You know I’m heading home. To my parent’s that is. I’m sure they could use an extra hand around. Can you fight? Maybe you could be a guard or-“

He watched a big grey hand come up and wave around briefly. “You would offer me a job?” He began slowly as if speaking to a small child. “When you know nothing of me and you know nothing of my people?” 

Maxwell dwelled on this for a moment. “Well yeah.” Some small part of his brain realized that it was extremely stupid and risky to even have untied Arvaraad’s hands let alone offer to take him with him. “Why not? Do you plan on murdering us all? Because if so I can give you some coin and send you on your way. I’d rather, you know, be not dead.” He waved a hand dismissively. “And since you don’t, you can come with me.”

Maxwell kept up a stupid smile as Arvaraad stared at him. He didn’t look in the giant’s eyes, suddenly feeling rather dumb. He didn’t quite know what was compelling him to do this. “I suppose… If that is what you desire. You saved my life.” The giant spoke slowly, shrugging some. 

Maxwell held out a hand and the giant gently shook it. The grey hand was almost twice the size of Maxwell’s less dead colored tan hand. “Perfect!”

+~+~+

As it turned out, Arvaarad didn’t talk much. Maxwell often wondered if maybe he didn’t really speak Trade as well as he let on, but then that didn’t make much sense. Maxwell had tried more random words in Qunlat that he remembered from books but each time the Qunari acted like he’d just been stabbed in the ears, even going so far as to stop Maxwell from saying his name. 

“Arv. Call me Arv. Please stop trying.”  
“You’re a dick.”  
“At least I don’t speak like I have a dick in my mouth.”

It also turned out that Arvaarad was cleverer than any books about Qunari had ever let on. 

They were about a day out from Maxwell’s childhood home and had finally stopped for the evening to set up camp. His guards had been pretty annoyed to find they had a new tag along but it was generally best not to argue with a spoiled Trevelyan mage when he found a new pet.

Arvaarad stayed away from the guards and had only approached Maxwell once for something: new pants. They had found a stream leading into the sea so they had all been able to bathe, but clean pants did not mean non-ripped pants. Unlucky for one of the guards he and Arvaarad had almost been the same height. 

“You can borrow new shirt too.”  
“My people are allergic to shirts.”  
“Woah really?”  
“…Sure. Why not?”

Maxwell was happy to have someone who would listen to him talk and sometimes seemed to understand. The guards were boring meatheads; at least that’s what the mage had decided. Arvaraad was apparently well read, which was surprising because Maxwell was sure Qunari didn’t know what books were. It also helped that the Qunari had traveled all over Thedas. He never said why or what his job was, only that he had originally landed in Rivain and worked down all the way to Orlais and back into the Free Marches.  
The Qunari had taken first watch, as he did every night since Maxwell had saved him. He didn’t seem to sleep much, if at all. “There were leftovers.” Maxwell practically chirped, plopping down next to Arvaarad where he sat near the fire. He offered the Qunari a bowl of grey colored stew, a Ferelden delicacy he had been assured, before turning to his own bowl. ”I can’t imagine you’re not hungry. You’re like, three people.” This earned a bit of a snort from the other man. 

They sat in a companionable silence for a while until both had finished their second helping of lukewarm grey soup. Maxwell peered up at the ox next to him. “So what did you do? I mean, your name, what does it mean?” He hadn’t really asked before and while he wasn’t one of those dorky mages (or so he told himself) he was still curious.

Yellow eyes met his before Arvaarad spoke. “It means ‘One who hold bad evil’ and my job was to care for mages.” He spoke with that pleasing thunder rumble with just a hint of wariness. His voice was no longer scratchy thanks to daily healing potions. His mouth had also mostly healed although badly scarred from the stitches and infection thereof. “And yes. Qunari do cut out the tongues and sew up the mouths of mages who cause trouble.”

“Did you ever…You know, do that?” Maxwell asked after a moment.  
“No. The mages in my karataam, my group of mages, came to me with their tongues cut out. A few with their mouths sewn….They were considered trouble-makers, but were too valuable to do away with.” He hunched forward now, elbows resting on his knees and head pillowed in one hand. He looked at the human as if waiting for something.

Maxwell offered that stupid grin of his as a reassurance. He figured that if Arvaraad were going to harm him he would have done it by now. “So do I freak you out or whatever? I’m pretty fantastic you know.”

“Qunari are taught that mastering yourself is mastering the world. Mages, you included, struggle constantly. You struggle to keep your magic in check. You struggle against demons.” Arvaarad shook his head at the thought. “I do not fear you. I respect you, but I believe that mages need to be supervised.”

Maxwell kicked his legs out in front of him, resting his hands on either side of himself. “You told me that for now I could call you Arv, yeah?” A nod. “So if that’s not your job anymore then why keep that name?”

This time the Qunari grinned a bit. “For now, given the present company, it is by job.”


	7. Chapter 7

The part arrived at the Trevelyan estate in Ostwick in the late afternoon just in time for tea. To his great surprise, Maxwell’s mother had been thrilled to find the tag along Qunari in Maxwell’s guard.

“No one else has one of this Qun-folk working for them!” She practically squealed. She had married young, maybe too young, and still had some of that youthful exuberance about her. Maxwell was somewhat loath to admit that they looked very much alike. His mother’s side of the family had always been described as owl-like with large eyes and round faces that gave the men a somewhat feminine appearance. Maxwell had cut his heavily highlighted brown hair fairly short while his mother’s hair flowed down her back in fashionable curls.

“It’s nice to see you too, Mother.” Maxwell snorted. The Ostwick circle had only been five days ride from the actual city of Ostwick, but his parents had only ever visited him five times in his nearly twenty year stay. The first five years of his stay for that matter.

His mother, Laurine, turned from a mildly confused Arvaarad to her son. “Don’t be sassy. Come here. Let mommy see you.” She didn’t wait for an answer as she roughly tugged her son closer to her level by the chin.   
“You’ve gained weight.” She scolded, pinching his cheeks.   
“Yeah puberty and being twenty-nine does that to a guy.” 

+~+~+

Had it not been for the nearly mute Qunari Maxwell was sure he would have killed himself by now. It had been twelve days since they had arrived in Ostwick and really he was ready to leave by day three. His days progressed as follow: wake, tea, attend sermon, tea, read, tea, dinner, get drunk and fall asleep on the floor (usually in Arvaarad’s bedroom). At least in the Circle there was more to do than nothing. His mother insisted that he go nowhere alone lest demons possess him or something. Luckily he had convinced her that his new pet friend was the Qunari equivalent of a Templar. He came to realize that this wasn’t exactly false, but he was mostly happy to have some understanding company.

Maxwell’s boredom had forced him to take drastic measures: go to the market. He had convinced his mother that he needed no escort, but she had insisted that he take Arvaarad. He suspected she wanted to show off that she had a Qunari at her disposal, but at least she didn’t suggest Cooper or…Well he really didn’t know the names of the other guards who had accompanied him from the Circle. 

“Hey, Arv, we should fight crime like the Champion of Kirkwall.” Maxwell looked up at the giant next to him as they strolled through the market. There were stares to be sure. It was well known that the youngest Trevelyan son was a mage and the fact that a half naked Qunari accompanied him didn’t help at all.

To be fair Arvaarad was no longer half naked. Laurine had commissioned a set of simple but well crafted metal pauldrons for him that made his broad shoulder look even broader. He wore simple, loose black linen pants embroidered with the House Trevelyan crest along one pocket. What really surprised Maxwell was that his mother had managed to find a pair of boots that fit the giant ox man. She had even had a sword smithed for Arvaarad. The sword was simple, but served its purpose. The greatsword was nearly twice the size of any greatsword used by human hand and Arvaraad hefted it as if it were a thin rapier. He carried the sword on his back as he and Maxwell traversed the market. 

The great beast rumbles a chuckle. “Yes. A mage and a kossith fighting crime. That would surely be written into one of those trashy novels you’re so find of.” Maxwell notes that the man never calls himself Qunari. Kossith, Arvaraad explained once, is the ancient name of the grey giants. “And then we would be arrested and hanged.”

“You have a way with words.” Maxwell snorts, pausing in front of a stall selling sweets. “Hey should I get chocolate filled or jam filled?” He looked up at Arvaraad who just cocked his head. 

“I have never eaten either. Sweets are considered frivolous in Par Vollen.”  
Maxwell looked properly horrified. "You said you've been in the Marches for years!" Maxwell was speaking too loudly but he didn't really care. Someone who had never eaten sweets? He knew the Qunari were savage but that was just cruelty. "You must have had money? You could have bought you own."

Arvaarad shook his head. "No. I had no use for money. Only the commander needed money to buy supplies for us." He paused briefly to look over the cart. "I don't even know how money really works." He seemed ashamed by this fact if the tone in his voice said anything. 

Maxwell dug into the pockets of his robes and pulled out a few coins, buying several flavors of the sweets. "Yeah well I'll fix that. Mother'll better giving you a paycheck no doubt. Don't you want to buy stuff?"

Arvaarad seemed amused but did not answer. It seemed to be his way. Maxwell found it very annoying and he planned on fixing it.   
+~+~+

“So you’re telling that you, the half mile tall ten ton giant, doesn’t know how to cut his own nails?” 

The mage-Qunari pair spent a lot of time together. Maxwell claimed it was because Arvaarad put up with him, but really he was happy to have a friend who wasn’t scared of his “maginess” as he often so eloquently put it. Arvaarad wasn’t scared to touch him or make jokes or laugh at him. He didn’t fret or worry that Maxwell might suddenly set him on fire or be possessed. It was also pleasant to find after a few weeks of being stuck in Ostwick that Arvaarad was kind of weird and as Maxwell pried and whined, was coming out of his shell.  
“I didn’t say that I couldn’t cut my own nails.” Arvaarad did not pout, but he did frown. “I said I’m not good at it.” 

Maxwell complained as he searched around his bedroom for the needed supplies. The room was large and warm and absolutely awful. He realized it had been a guest room and the fact that his mother had done nothing to personalize it had hurt. He was (un)sure that his parents loved him, but they had obviously never planned to see him again. His father had barely even taken time to see him beyond evening meals and even then Bann Trevelyan spent most of his time entertaining dignitaries. 

“How the fuck can you not be good at cutting those talons you call nails?” Maxwell asked once he had found a small pair of scissors. He sat next to Arvaarad on the only lounge in the room that could fit them both. He grabbed one of the giant’s hands and started to carefully trim his slightly rounded but still somewhat sharp nails. The grey hand he held was twice the size of his own and rough from hard work. Maxwell’s own hands were soft and his fingers long and thin. 

“My tamassran used to cut my nails.” Arvaarad answered after a moment. “I was her first kid, you know? And I was an only kid for a really long time. She was shit at cutting my nails at first and would always cut too much. She’d say “Oh little dragons don’t have long nails!” when I’d complain.” He smiled fondly, watching Maxwell. “Which is bullshit because I’ve seen dragons and they have giant fucking claws.”

“What do you mean you were her only kid?” Maxwell was always interested in Qunari culture. At least according to Arvaarad, it was much less violent and savage than books made it out to be.

“Well babies are given to tamassrans a few days after birth. In the village I’m from I was the only baby born for six months and my tama was the only tamassran without any kids. She was, I don’t know how to say it, new I guess?” That fond little smile stayed on his face. “I was the only kid she had to take care of until I was seven. So she babied me I guess.”

“How old are you?” That earned a snort and no other answer. “Who cut your nails once you grew up them?” Another snort. Sometimes the ox would not answer questions. He would not say no or argue or say anything. It wasn’t very often that Arvaraad ever said anything negative really.

“You know I’m a noble.” Maxwell complained. Complaining was his go to when Arvaarad denied him something. “I shouldn’t be doing your nails like some servant girl.”  
“You are the one who pointed out they were getting too long.” 

Maxwell shrugged, going quiet as he focused on not hurting the other man. It was nice to just sit around with a friend. He missed the Circle in a way. He had more friends and the Templars hadn’t been so bad. Even the village surrounding the Circle had been nice. There had been good ale and that one bar boy was cute. “Do you ever miss home?” He asked quietly and he finished cutting the last nail.

Arvaarad didn’t respond right away. He inspected his nails, picking at one a little. “If I go home they’ll re-educate me. They’ll brainwash me.” He sighed heavily. “I miss my tama. I miss my friends. I even miss my shitty dormitory.”

They sat quietly for several minutes, just listening to the crackling of the fire and their own quiet breathing. They were both hurting, the mage realized. He reached out and set his hand over one of Arvaarad’s, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting go. “Let’s go get fucked up!”


	8. Chapter 8

It’s almost six months to the day he found Arvaarad that Maxwell is called into his father’s study. He feels like a little boy again. His father had always been a busy man, but he had always taken time out of his busy schedule to spend time with all five of his sons. Maxwell remembered once being his father’s favorite son. As the youngest he was meant to joining the Templar order and his father would often play out in the courtyard with him. They would play Templars and Blood Mages or even just play chess. His father had even given him a little toy Templar sword and shield for his ninth name-day. Ten days later he’d shown his father how he could make snowflakes in his hand. He could still see the fear in his father’s eyes. Bann Trevelyan had hugged his son, kissed him, and professed his love. Maxwell briefly closed his eyes at the memory. His father had not so much as shaken his hand since that day. Maxwell had never casted another ice spell either.

“Bann Trevelyan.” He stood near the door waiting to be acknowledged. No. It did not feel like being a little boy again. Little Maxwell would have already bounded over to his father and received hugs and kisses and…He closed his eyes again, just a moment too long to be a blink, before opening them.

“Maxwell, come in, sit down.” His father spoke gently like his son was a wounded predator about to strike. The tone clawed right at Maxwell’s gut as he obeyed, sitting stiffly in front of his father. The man had aged greatly since the last time Maxwell had seen him. Grey hair, deep wrinkles, and a perpetual frown. The mage still remembered the bright-eyed young man who had once been his father. 

“You’ve lost weight.” His father said awkwardly. His eyes flashed from his son’s face to his hands and back several times.

“Mother also commented on my weight when she first saw me.” The mage snorted. “I’ve been training with Arv. I’ve got nothing better to do here.”

“Yes, your…Pet.”

Maxwell sat a little straighter, owl-eyes narrowing. “If you’re just going to give me the same lecture you gave me when I was fifteen and the Templars found me and that Templar recruit in the larder-“ His father waved his hand at him cut him off. That had been quite the awkward meeting to be sure.

“That isn’t what I called you in to discuss. If I had known you would be so hostile I would have asked your mother to do it.” He did not pause long enough to allow Maxwell some biting comment. “As you may or may not know the Chantry is organizing a conclave in the hopes of ending this “rebellion” or whatever it is the mages think they’re doing.” The way he spat the word mage made Maxwell look away. He could still hear his mother’s sobs as the Templar’s had to physically carry him away. His father had not looked at him. “I think it will do well to have Trevelyans on both sides of the debate. You brothers will be there and I would like you to accompany the mages.”

As the youngest son it had simply been assumed that Maxwell would have been a Templar. His elder brother would take over and become patriarch once their father died and the second son would assist that brother. His third brother had entered into the order and his fourth brother had entered into the Chantry as a brother. He hasn’t seen any of them since he was nine years old. 

“Oh you would see mages and templars debate? I wouldn’t put it past you to call for a Thedas-wide Annulment! Let’s just clear out the whole continent of those filthy mages, right?” Maxwell knew he’d taken it too far, but sometimes memories couldn’t be held down. 

He turned his gaze to the floor as his father rose, slamming his hands on his desk. “You will speak to me with respect.” He roared, leaning closer to his son over the desk. “You will go to the conclave and you will not bring further shame upon this family! You may be an abomination, but you are a Trevelyan!” 

The words hurt worse than any physical hit ever could. “I will go.” Maxwell’s voice is barely above a cracked whisper. He stands, unable to meet his father’s eyes. “You were supposed to love me no matter what.” He leaves quickly, body quaking with pain. He hears his father call after him, but does not turn. Abomination. 

+~+~+

The first time he’d seen Arvaarad cry they had both been very drunk. Well, maybe Maxwell had been more drunk than Arvaarad had been, but that wasn’t exactly the point. It had been Feastday and the Trevelyan family had thrown a fantastic party with food and drink and presents and drunken declaration of “Keep the Andraste in Feastday!” 

A bonfire had roared in the courtyard to warm the bodies of the partgoers. Maxwell had insisted that steal a spot near the flames to keep warm and away from obnoxious, prying nobles. 

The pair had taken seats near the fire, pilfered bottle of some fine brandy passing between them. Maxwell had rambled on about something or the other when he realized the bottle he was offering the Qunari was not being taken. 

“Arv?” The man sat with his head nearly between his knees, yellow eyes wide and wet. His hands had gripped his horns (and Maxwell later learned the pressure of pulling on them felt nice) and his chest had heaved as he gasped for air. 

They didn’t speak of it and the giant had offered no explanation the next morning. He had only quietly asked Maxwell to never invite him to another bonfire.   
+~+~+

The second time Maxwell had seen his friend cry made slightly more sense. His mother had insisted that Maxwell take the man to the family tailor so he would look slightly less ferocious. Of course just a week before she had insisted that Arvaarad frown a little more. 

Arvaarad, in all of his patience and kindness, had shrugged. “She pays me to dick around with you.”

The trip to the tailor had been uneventful and they had even discussed what sort of dress Arvaarad might have designed. “Lime green with lace, right?” He hadn’t noticed right away that the giant’s hands were shaking when they opened the door to the tailor’s shop. The man had greeted them, mouth full of needles as he pinned some fabric into place. 

The giant had started to gasp for breath and the shakes worsened. The hand that had opened the door tightened around the handle, crushing it like it was little more than clod of dirt. Frightened tears had fallen from those unattractively yellow eyes and it had taken nearly half an hour to calm the man enough to get him home.

They didn’t speak of the incident, but Maxwell noticed Arvaarad touching his mouth more than usual for the next few days.

+~+~+

The third time Maxwell was sure Arvaarad didn’t know about. In the previous months they had somehow found themselves in Maxwell’s bed… Really it had started with a rather crass question from a more sober than he’d like to admit Maxwell. 

“Hey, Arv, hey.”  
“Oh I’m sure you have something awful to say.”  
“D’you fuck men?”  
“I was right. Yes. I do.”  
“You ever fuck a human?”  
“I know where this is going. No I haven’t.”  
“Well I’ve never fucked a Qunari.”

After that they often ended up in Maxwell’s bed. What Maxwell couldn’t remember was the day Arvaarad had stopped bothering to even sleep in his room. 

The night in question Maxwell woke when he felt the bed shift. He started to roll over to complain, but heard the familiar gasping breaths and weak sob that meant the other man was crying. Their, whatever it was they were doing, had been too new and Maxwell had been too scared to turn and comfort the other man. Before he’d drifted back to sleep he’d heard the Qunari mumble in Qunalt. All he understood was “Saarebas”. Mage.

+~+~+  
The tears don’t reach his eyes until after he has stepped into the courtyard. His hands shake and it gets hard to breath. Is this what Arvaarad feels? Like he’s dying? Like clawing out his own heart would be preferable? 

He quickly crossed the courtyard, meeting the eyes of no one. It was early in the morning and the only people in the courtyard were guards still drowsy with sleep and a few tittering elf servant girls. He felt shame heat his face. They would see the tears and they would gossip. Fine. He was leaving anyway.

He nearly slammed his bedroom door open and then slammed it closed. On the bed the giant lay snuggled under the thick blankets and stirred grumpily at the intrusion. Maxwell had imagined such a huge Qunari would be as hot as a furnace, but Arvaarad constantly complained of being cold. His feet in particular had poor circulation and Maxwell was sure he had never seen the big man without socks on. Maxwell divested himself of his boots and over-robe and belt before falling into the bed with a tearful huff. 

A warm arm reached out from under the blankets and tugged him into the snuggly warmth. A scratchy morning beard roughed his neck and hot, lazy kisses peppered his neck after. “You’re crying.” His voice was rough with sleep, but there was no hint of judgment. 

Maxwell wrapped his arms around the grey beast, fingers curling in the long white hair. When had this happened? It was nice to have someone to run to. “My father is an ass.” He croaked weakly, fresh tears falling now. “Abomination! He called me an abomination!” He was sobbing now and the arm that had pulled him into the blanket sanctuary tightened gently around him. Arvaarad said nothing. He offered no half-hearted apologies or reassurances. He only held him and kissed him and Maxwell felt…Confused.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maxwell the worst mage ever

“Arv, hey.”

A massive, all too familiar sigh followed. “You know they used to tell us that mages in Thedas were smart and had big vocabularies and were blood mages. You are none of those things.” 

Maxwell grinned and draped himself over Arvaarad’s lap like some oversized cat instead of a too-tall mage. Arvaarad sighed and rested a hand on his back. They’d been sharing a cramped cabin on a cramped ship out of Ostwick headed for Highever. Maxwell insisted that they’re going on a real adventure, but really they plan on taking the well-worn and well-protected Imperial Highway as they travel to Haven and then on to the conclave. 

“Don’t be a dick. I’m plenty smart. At least I’m not a dork like you.” The mage complains although he doesn’t stop grinning. He still feels the weight of his father’s words on his chest and sometimes his smile feels more like an open wound, but it’s not so bad. He and his Qunari have been stuck in their tiny cabin for three days and they both smell like dirty bilge water, boredom sex, and cheese rations. Arvaarad can’t escape Maxwell’s pointless talking and Maxwell has someone to pointlessly talk to. It’s a win-win…For Maxwell at least. His own thoughts never sat well with him. Talking filled up all the space for thinking. 

“I’m not a dork…” Arvaarad almost seemed offended, but Maxwell thinks the man has never been offended before. Or embarrassed for that matter. Did Qunari blush? They probably turned purple; Maxwell would bet money on it. And Maxwell knew how this conversation would go. Arvaarad would deny being a dork despite his dorkiness (the man wore wool socks for Andraste’s sake) and Maxwell would tease him until he was pushed onto the floor or hit with the book the giant had been flipping through. Arvaarad had spent most of his time reading while Maxwell wandered the ship when he could. The Qunari had gotten shaky and gasp-y at the idea of looking out at the ocean and as such he had not left the cabin at all. Maxwell was happy he hadn’t cried at least.

Instead of teasing, Maxwell just laid there for a few minutes as Arvaarad went back to reading. He had never been afforded this kind of intimacy with a lover in the Circle. Really he’d never actually had a real lover in the Circle come to think of it. His past relationships had mostly consisted of dry humping in dark corners and fucking travelers that passed through the small town surrounding the tower. It hadn’t been so bad, but this was better. 

“Hey, Arv?” This time he was only graced with a grunt. Maxwell almost rolled his eyes. “I’m going to say something awful and you aren’t allowed to say anything, yeah?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’m really glad I met you.”

Arvaarad sighed, the hand that had been resting on Maxwell’s back shifted to his head and long fingers started to card through his hair in the way he liked. “That was awful.” Maxwell could hear him smiling.  
+~+~+

Maxwell quickly discovered that Arvaarad had some strange habits. He woke up every morning (or afternoon if they’ve been drinking) and went through a routine of exercise and mumbling in Qunlat, which Maxwell thought might be prayers. The mage didn’t understand how anyone could exercise every single day or even function within three hours of waking up. Maxwell would readily admit that he’s lazy and out of shape and if it wasn’t for a steady diet of wine and like six grapes a day he’d be fatter than he was. 

Arvaarad had been named Maxwell’s official bodyguard and protector thanks to his experience with mages and when not, as he would put it “dicking around” with Maxwell he could be found training the family guard (and once the city guard) in proper mage management. He could also sometimes be found talking to the kennel master or reading in the library, but that wasn’t so interesting in Maxwell’s opinion.

What was very interesting was sitting in the training yard with a cold drink and a plate of fine Orleasian pastries while watching a dozen sweaty men grunt and crash against each other. Maxwell had never hidden his sexual proclivities no matter how many wailing tears his mother had shed that time when he was fifteen and he’d been found with the Templar recruit… He didn’t mind being a horrible scary mage and a sexual deviant. When asked about why he’s watching he claims he’d just taking in the sunshine, but he’s pale and burns easily so he sat under a shade tree to do his watching. 

The men had paused their practice for water and Maxwell was happy to watch. That is until the low blow punch of jealousy hit him right in the gut and he snorted angrily into his drink. He and Arvaarad had been doing… something for a few months. They fuck and they kiss and sometimes Maxwell sits in Arvaarad’s lap despite his grumbling (Maxwell you’re heavy and your ass is flat) and sometimes Arvaarad puts his hand on Maxwell’s thigh when they’re having dinner and smiles at him as his mother insults him. They don’t talk about what they’re doing, but Maxwell doesn’t like sharing. Seeing Arvaarad leaning against his sword, one hand on the back of the guard captain’s neck as they stand too close together just doesn’t sit right in his gut.

The guard captain was tall and broad and Maxwell thinks he might have had some Qunari or maybe some ugly stupid bear in him because he’s stupid and ugly and Maxwell has seen him shirtless and he’s stupid and hairy. Also stupid.

Maxwell felt his face grow hot as Arvaarad stroked his thumb over the sweaty hair at the back of the guard captain’s neck and the human leaned closer to Arvaarad and laughed too loudly and too brightly at something he’s saying.

He stood too quickly before clearing his throat, feeling embarrassed despite the fact that no one had noticed. “Arv, hey!” The giant stepped away from the human, both hands resting on the pommel of his sword. He’s stabbed it into the ground for safekeeping and it’s large enough to come nearly to his navel, which Maxwell had been surprised to learn it had been pierced (like everything else on the man it seemed), but he had lost the piercing to a very pissed off mage who had ripped it out.   
“Fight me!” Maxwell demanded, hands on his hips. The very suggestion brought about a ripple of laughter from the guards including the big stupid, ugly hairy guard captain. 

Arvaarad didn’t laugh or even reply right away. His hands went up and carefully retie his long white hair into a neat, well-practiced bun. “Okay.” He replied finally with a shrug of his massive shoulders. The heavy metal pauldrons he wore clanking and clattering under the motion of it. “But when I win you owe me a drink.” 

Maxwell’s mouth flapped like a fish out of water for a moment before he stomped over to the weapons stand. First he unbuttoned his robe, dropping it into the dirt in an angry heap. It’s ceremonial and he’s never understood why mages wore them really. Underneath he wears plain trousers and a tunic and suddenly the fact that he’s wearing red (Arv’s favorite color) pisses him off even more. “You’re a fucking asshole!” He snapped, grabbing one of the practice staves to stand in as his staff. 

Arvaarad seemed confused at his anger, but did not respond; instead he slipped on the gloves hanging on his belt. They’re fine leather, custom made given his size, and plated in the same metal as that on his shoulders. He stands at ease, hands resting on the pommel of his sword again. 

Maxwell stopped a few dozen paces from the Qunari, face early as red as his tunic from anger. He would be the first to admit that he was a shitty mage. He’d passed his Harrowing by talking the demon into boredom for Maker’s sake. He had always skipped out on his lessons or just half-assed everything enough to pass through the classes. He hadn’t taken a magical hobby like so many of his peers and most of the spells he was good at were little more than parlor tricks he’d learned from Tevinter manuals. 

He swung the stave in a wide sweeping motion in front of him, forming a wall of flames right at the giant’s feet, surrounding him completely. Arvaarad looked confused only for a moment before he kicked loose dirt onto the flames, effectively snuffing them out. This brought about roaring peals of laughter from their spectators. 

The mage sputtered, face red and hot with embarrassment. He swung his staff again, artlessly and without the flair more practiced mages exhibited. An angry ball of flame shot out of the end of the stave toward Arvaarad’s chest. When the Qunari batted it away with the back of his hand Maxwell seriously considered stomping over and smacking him with the stave. 

“Oh fuck you!” He snapped, sending out four more fireballs, which were easily batted away. The giant hadn’t even moved from his spot near his sword. Maxwell stalked closer, sending out balls of electricity now. These Arvaarad took in the shoulder, shifting his body so that the energy dissipated into his armor. The mage was at least pleased to see him wince some at the shock. 

Maxwell finally slammed the stave into the ground and after a split second a ripple of energy spread out from his feet toward the Qunari. Maxwell had a split second of absolute rage as the mind blast (or was it brain blast?) bounced off of Arvaarad’s braced body and slammed right back into its creator, throwing him to the ground in an undignified heap.

The world was black for only thirty or forty seconds before Maxwell felt everything come back to him. He groaned, blinking slowly as Arvaarad’s worried face came into view. “I’m really happy you aren’t dead.” He rumbled, gently helping the human sit up. 

“Are you fucking the captain?” Maxwell asked weakly, rubbing his eyes in frustration. He’d never been more embarrassed in his entire life and now that he was sure he would drop dead from that embarrassment he thought he might as well ask the question before he met his end. 

Arvaarad frowned, peering at Maxwell with those ugly yellow eyes. He didn’t answer right away and that only made Maxwell feel worse. “We have a few times, yeah. Is that what this is about, Maxwell?” And fuck him if he didn’t sound confused and amused at the same time. 

Maxwell shifted in the dirt, dusting dirt from his trousers as if it were more important than looking at the other man. “Could you…you know, whatever, not anymore?” He thought he heard Arvaarad chuckle a s a big hand rested on his shoulder. “Whatever you want, Max.”

+~+~+

 

They landed in Highever a day later and found a tavern to stay in and a bathhouse to bathe in. They had traveled alone despite his mother’s insistence that they take a full squad of guards. He had mentioned the cost and she’d quickly stopped complaining.

The bathhouse had been a fun experience. He and Arvaarad had taken to honing his magic every day after his very embarrassing loss to the Qunari. It had occurred to him that Arvaarad’s entire role among the Qunari had been the care of mages, but it had never occurred to him that he might be able to teach him how to better his magic considering the man had no skill in it himself. It had taken a few months, but Maxwell was finally able to knock Arvaarad on his ass with a well-placed lightning bolt. He did regret it as the Qunari’s previously almost unmarred flesh now displayed a nasty lightning scar along his left arm. The point was, Maxwell realized even his own thoughts were disorganized; he had lost weight and toned up quite a bit. Even so he still felt somewhat unconscious, especially next to the giant.

And really calling Arvaarad a giant wasn’t what he really looked like. The pair had once found a shitty romance novel about a male Qunari and a noble woman. The Qunari had been described as hulking, monstrous, and beastly as well as being massively tall and wide. The Qunari in the novel was also apparently too hot for shirts and had a massive dick. Arvaarad had gotten a kick out of it, explaining that the only Qunari he’d ever seen that fit that size description were the former Arishok who’d been killed in Kirkwall and a Qunari he’d grown up with that had been so big as a child they’d called him “The Ox.”

There was no saying Arvaarad was scrawny, but next to Maxwell he didn’t look so huge. Of course Maxwell was built like a lazy Templar so that wasn’t saying much, but Arvaarad was hardly a giant. He was just tall and wide and honestly was it so bad to stare at his ass as he undressed to bathe?

Unlike Maxwell the man never seemed to be self-conscious of the way he looked. People stared and sometimes they whispered, but he only ever reacted if someone called him giant or beast or monster. Then his shoulders would droop and he would frown, averting yellow eyes. 

Beyond the usual stares the trip to the bathhouse had been uneventful. Even the trip back to the tavern for a hot meal and a couple dozen drinks had been nice. Well, maybe not a dozen, but four drinks in and Maxwell had wandered off to take a piss, leaving Arvaarad alone at the bar.

When he returned he felt that white hot jab of jealousy right in his gut. His seat had been taken by a cute elf man with long lashes and damn tiny hands and he’s using those damn little hands to trace over the lines of Arvaarad’s hand and all Maxwell wants to do is break his wrist and maybe slit his bird-like throat with whatever sharp thing he can get his hands on.

He knows the feeling isn’t healthy and it isn’t normal to feel such jealous rage at the very sight of his…Well he’s not sure what they are, but he knows deep down that it isn’t okay to feel this way, but that doesn’t stop him from walking over (trying not to stomp is hard), and coming up on the Qunari’s other side. 

He carefully wrapped his arms around Arvaarad’s midsection, leaning into his arm. The giant had switched out the pokey metal pauldrons for a dark button down tunic. (“I can’t just go around completely shirtless”) He slipped a hand under that tunic and turned owl eyes up at the man as he looked down. 

“I don’t feel well.” And maybe he’s a little too drunk to pull off the pouty, sad look, but at least it get’s the ox’s attention. 

“Go to bed?” Arvaarad sounds confused. “You probably drank too much.” He doesn’t sound concerned enough, Maxwell decides. He leans against the man a bit more, briefly catching the annoyed eye of the elf (tiny fuck). 

He stood on his toes because who the fuck decided bar stools needed to make people tall even when sitting, and kissed the man gently. They had never hidden affection from anyone, although Arvaarad seemed to be subtler with his affections than Maxwell. It hurts, a different hurt than he jealousy, when Arvaarad gently pushes him away. “Go to bed.” His tone is no longer confused, but angry. “I will come up if I please.”

The mage pulled away, not meeting the eyes of the man who had rejected him. “Okay.” His voice is small and he’s not even sure he can be heard over the din and clamor of the tavern. He skulked to he and Arvaarad’s room, curling up on the only bed.

Much later he feels the bed dip and the giant lay down. He thinks maybe he smells like sex and it takes everything in his body for Maxwell not to cry.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell's an asshole and Arv is a pushover tbh

To anyone who hadn’t just been hit in the face with his own spell, the day would have been beautiful. Fluffy clouds, blue sky, and cheerful birds. It was a day filled with all the shit writers loved to write about plus a bloody nose.

“You broke my nose.” Maxwell’s voice is pinched, pained, and sounds like he may or may not have spent several minutes crying as Arvaarad fetched a poultice. 

“Your nose is not broken. If it was broken you wouldn’t even let me touch it.” The Qunari scolds. He’s carefully pressed the poultice to the mage’s nose with a heavy towel to soak up the blood that still flows. “If you weren’t so slow this would never have happened.”

They had been training daily for a few weeks and Maxwell had barely improved. He grew frustrated easily and had to be nearly dragged into the training yard each day. “Maybe if you weren’t such a shitty teacher.” 

Arvaarad doesn’t seem hurt. Instead he pulls the poultice away to inspect the damage. He had deflected a stone Maxwell had flung at him and really he hadn’t meant to hit him. The mage’s nose wasn’t broken but even with the poultice and a potion it would still be badly bruised and he might even be left with a scar over the bridge of it. 

“I don’t even know why we’re still doing this! I’m a shitty mage! I don’t even need to know any of this!” Maxwell’s arms flail around though he doesn’t move away as the poultice is pressed onto his nose again. “It’s a waste of my fucking time.”

“Tell me,” Arvaarad’s tone is quiet, “if the Circles are reformed and the Templars come, will you let them take you?”  
“Fuck no.”  
“And how will you protect yourself from them if you can’t even protect yourself from me? What if you family is attacked and I’m not around to save you? Please tell me, Maxwell, how will you defend yourself?” There’s force and concern in his tone now. Maybe there’s fear, Maxwell can never be sure. “You’re my best friend and I will protect you for as long as I can, but Max you need to learn to protect yourself.” 

The mage has no response until Arvaarad leans forward and gentle kisses his forehead. “I’m an asshole.” He says finally, looking up owlishly.   
The giant smiled then and helped him up. “Let’s get the asshole inside.”  
+~+~+

Maxwell woke with a low groan and a pounding headache. He hadn’t even had enough to drink to warrant a hangover, but maybe shame had the same effect as shitty ale. He groaned again and sat up, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. 

“This has to stop.” The low rumbling voice that had always brought him pleasure hit him like ton of bricks. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He knows Arvaarad is staring at him, but he can’t bring himself to turn his head until the bed dips down and the giant sits on the edge of the bed. He looks disappointed and a touch angry. Maxwell is reminded of his father in the worst way. 

“I am not your property, Maxwell. You can’t go into jealous bitch-fits every time you see anyone else near me. I’m not even attracted to elves!” He reached out and rested a hand on Maxwell’s thigh. 

“I love you.” Maxwell croaked weakly. He expected to be pulled into Arvaarad’s lap and kissed and he expected to hear declarations of love from the man. Instead the giant sighs heavily and looks away from him. 

“Do you expect me to say the same?” Maxwell can feel his throat tightened as the other man speak. “We aren’t living in some shitty romance novel, Max. You don’t love me. You love the idea of me. You spent your whole life in that Circle. You don’t know what it’s really like to be free.”

The mage made a low sound of pain before sitting up on his knees to be just at Arvaarad’s eye level. “Don’t you fucking tell me what I feel! Don’t give me your pseudo-philosophical bullshit Just tell me you don’t love me back.” He feels like crying but he doesn’t allow the tears to come. Maybe he does want to live in a romance novel. He and Arvaarad could live happily ever after in love and never feel pain again. He balled up his fist, biting down on it weakly to stop the tears. “Arv please….”

“I do love you.” He speaks softly as if Maxwell were a child. “But you don’t know what love is yet. I know it sounds cliché, but you’ll find someone else one day and then where does that leave me? I don’t want to be hurt any more than I want to hurt you.” 

He paused then and Maxwell took it as an opportunity to lean closer, shuffling his knees so that they were pressed against Arvaarad’s legs. He whimpered like a child, pressing his face to the giant’s arm and holding onto the black tunic he still wore. He stopped caring about staying strong or whatever reason men had for holding back tears. “Don’t reject me.” He begged, voice cracking. It was underhanded, he realized, begging the Qunari who had never once told him no. “You’re hurting me now. Please.”

There was silence for some time besides Maxwell’s pitiful sobs and hiccups. Finally the giant pulled Maxwell into his lap, holding him carefully. “Please don’t cry.” Maxwell chose to take the defeated tone in his voice as caring. “I…you know I can’t say no to you.”

Maxwell sniffled and kissed the larger man’s cheek, heart swelling as his stomach churned.


End file.
